


The Violet Hour

by CloudAtlas



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Late at Night, Longing, Minor Injuries, Multi, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:21:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29566023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas/pseuds/CloudAtlas
Summary: When Sam married Natasha, he thought he understood what he was signing up for.But Sam wasn’t ready for Clint Barton.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov/Sam Wilson, Natasha Romanov/Sam Wilson
Comments: 30
Kudos: 87





	The Violet Hour

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [The Violet Hour by the Civil Wars](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O_pQC_tV3kQ). Listen to it. It is beautiful. Beta'd by **Alistra** <3
> 
> This is absolutely a case of "write the fic you want to see in the world". There should be more Clint/Nat/Sam guys.

It isn’t the knock at the door that wakes Sam; he’s too heavy a sleeper for that. Rather, it’s Natasha kicking him to go and answer the knock at the door, which is peak Natasha Romanov and also kinda fucking annoying because of the two of them, she’s the one with insomnia. _She’s_ already awake.

Sam gets up anyway, ‘cause he’s a good husband. Also, it’s easier than arguing.

“What – oh.” The night air from the open door is cool on Sam’s chest and legs as he stares dumbly at Clint Barton, who stands on his porch looking awkward and beat to hell. “Clint?”

Sam almost feels self-conscious all of a sudden, answering the door in only his boxers.

“I got mugged,” Clint’s voice is night-soft. There’s blood on his chin, crusted around his nose. “Can I get – they took my keys, too. Can I get my spare?”

It takes a moment before Sam’s brain kicks in. But then, “ _Jesus_ , Clint,” he says. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Clint scrubs his hand over the back of his head, avoiding Sam’s eyes. “I – keys?”

“Get the fuck inside,” Sam says instead. He’s not going to let Clint out of his sight when he looks like _this_. “Jesus Christ, Clint.”

Clint hesitates and Sam glares at him until he moves, his shoulder brushing Sam’s chest as he passes to stand, apparently unmoored, in the hallway.

When Sam married Natasha, he thought he understood what he was signing up for. He was prepared for her occasional hyper-focus on her work, her constantly abandoned coffee mugs, and having to pull her hair from the shower drain. He was ready for her bouts of insomnia, her apparent inability to fold clothes, and her tense relationship with her aunt and uncle.

But Sam wasn’t ready for Clint Barton.

There was no reason to be really. Clint was the ex-boyfriend from college. Natasha had broken up with him in her sophomore year for reasons Sam was never really clear on, after which Clint’s dropped out and disappeared with only intermittent phone calls and emails to assure Natasha of his continued existence. For seven years, Clint Barton had simply been a voice on the other end of the phone. He wasn’t there when Natasha graduated, or to celebrate her passing the bar, or at her _fucking wedding_. In fact, Sam and Natasha had known each other five years and been married for three before he ever reappeared in Natasha's life.

For most people he’d be a footnote in their lives – _hey, remember that guy?_ – but for Natasha he was… Well, Sam had never really been sure, not until he actually met the man. He’d been all geared up to hate him too – though he’s not even sure _why_ ; Natasha had been the one to break up with _him_ and she’d _married_ Sam after all – but it turns out that Sam just can’t hate Clint Barton.

He’s a mess; a bundle of issues – daddy, authority, self-worth – with depressive tendencies and no self-preservation instincts whatsoever. He has a chronic inability to save money, only the loosest grasp on the concept of time, and is as emotionally constipated as some of Sam’s most messed-up vets. But he’s also unfailingly kind; always giving money to street musicians, chatting to homeless people, paying for other people’s groceries. Sometimes Sam’s honestly worried Clint’ll just keep giving and giving and giving until there’s nothing left.

He’ll drop everything to help if you need it and, for anyone else, that would be enough, but Natasha’s not the kind of person to keep in touch with someone just because they’re _nice_.

Embarrassingly, it took Sam almost a year after Clint’s return before he worked it out.

“You still love him, don’t you?” he’d asked Natasha one morning over pancakes. “You always have.”

It was apropos of nothing but, nevertheless, he didn’t have to specify.

“Yeah,” Natasha had replied, almost resigned.

 _I should be angry_ , Sam had thought, but he just wasn’t; all he felt was the lightbulb _oh_ of things fitting into place. Of course she still loved him, had always loved him. It’s the only way everything made sense.

He used it as an excuse – to invite Clint over, have him around more – ruthlessly pretending that that’s all it was. It was for Natasha, _Clint_ was for Natasha. Until –

Well. Best not think about that right now. It’s just…

This isn’t the first time Clint has turned up on their doorstep in the middle of the night.

“C’mon Clint,” he says, his voice soft as though that will be enough to banish the memories of the last time this happened. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“I just need my key.”

Sam ignores this, instead placing his palm in the middle of Clint’s back and pushing gently, directing him to one of the kitchen chairs. Clint moves without complaint.

“C’mon,” he says again. “Did they get your phone too?”

A rhetorical question, Sam’s sure. If Clint still had his phone, he wouldn’t be here.

“Yeah,” Clint breathes out.

Clint flexes his hands and Sam’s gaze is drawn to his bloody and scabbed over knuckles. Sam’s not even surprised to find Clint fought back. It’s what Clint _does_. His phone is nearly ten years old, the screen is more dead pixel than live, and he probably had all of twenty dollars on him. The most valuable thing Clint probably lost was his prepaid Metrocard but still, he wouldn’t have given it up without a fight.

Christ, the idea of Clint fighting some mugger for that – for his shit phone and his Metrocard and his last twenty dollars – makes Sam _ache_.

“Why were you even out?” he asks, distracting himself as he draws Clint’s hands into his lap, gently wiping away blood and dirt with a dishcloth.

“I just – ” There’s something tight in Clint’s voice and his eyebrows pinch as he studiously avoids Sam’s eyes. His throat clicks as he swallows. “I just need my key.”

His voice is so quiet Sam almost misses it and his eyes are fixed on where his hands lie inert against the dark skin of Sam’s thighs. He looks like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin, all anxious energy with nowhere to go.

“Clint,” Sam says quietly and Clint makes an almost helpless sound in reply; a hitching breath, like his throat is catching on a sob.

Sam lays the dishcloth aside and takes both his hands into his own. “Hey – ” he starts, but he’s interrupted by the bedroom door opening and Natasha’s voice calling, “Sam?”

There’s a beat of silence where Clint stares at Sam’s hands and Sam stares at the delicate tracery of veins on Clint’s eyelids, and then Sam calls, “In here, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t look away from Clint as he speaks though, so he sees the way Clint’s eyes flick up to his when he says ‘sweetheart’ before almost immediately flicking away again. It makes something wild and dangerous break free in Sam’s chest.

“What is – Clint?” Natasha comes into the room, worry immediately seeping into her tone as she spots Clint’s bruised and bloody face. “What happened?”

She rushes forward, her legs bare and pale, and cups a hand around Clint’s cheek, gently tilting his head so she can better see the damage.

“Clint?” she says again, but Clint doesn’t reply. He looks like he’s having about five crises at once. Natasha's hand is barely touching his face yet Clint looks like he’s about to break under the weight of it.

“I’m okay,” Clint scrapes out eventually.

He’s not, they both know he’s clearly not, but neither of them contradict him – what would be the point? So instead Sam reluctantly lets go of Clint’s hands to pick up the dishcloth again, folding it into a small square before pressing it to Clint’s face, a mirror image of Natasha’s hand against his other cheek.

Together, Sam and Natasha clean the blood from Clint’s face. He’s going to have quite the black eye tomorrow but at least his nose isn’t broken.

Sam meets Natasha's gaze over Clint’s bowed head. There’s a certain inevitability to Natasha’s questioning eyebrow, to Sam’s answering nod. They were always going to end up here; it’s inescapable, like gravity.

“Come to bed,” Natasha says softly, her thumb sweeping evenly across Clint’s cheek.

Both spare bedrooms in Sam and Natasha's home were converted into offices as soon as they bought the place, so there’s only one bed she could be referring to.

“Don’t,” Clint whispers, a desperate plea. His expression his tight, almost pained, and his shoulders are rock hard tense.

Once again, Sam takes Clint’s hands into his own. “Clint,” he says, hushed and with as much conviction as he can muster at 3 a.m. in the morning, “it’s okay. Come to bed.”

Clint makes no reply. He just breathes out long and even, as though releasing some pent up emotion, and doesn’t resist when Natasha pulls him to his feet.

Sam gently strips him down to his boxers and t-shirt, trying to ignore the miles of pale skin being revealed, and together he and Natasha ease Clint under their covers, still warm from interrupted sleep. Natasha curls an arm around Clint chest and Sam presses his face into his shoulder, and all the while Clint just breathes and breathes and breathes.

“Be here in the morning this time,” Natasha whispers into his neck, a question and a plea rolled into one, and Clint doesn’t reply. But when Sam next opens his eyes, it’s to the view of Clint Barton's messy bedhead glinting blond in the dawn light.


End file.
